Greg parked in the driveway of the Harris house, behind a dusty Ford Focus with a Challenger/Columbia tag and a peeling “My other car is a TARDIS” sticker on the bumper. The house was typical for the area—a one-story concrete block with a St. Augustine grass lawn and a one-car garage.
Greg had Googled Justin Harris before he left the office and discovered an active Twitter account and a sizable collection of newspaper articles on space-related topics, dating back about twelve years. Harris had sounded young on the phone, but his work history indicated that he might not be that young.
Greg peered into the car windows. The press credential for today’s launch was still lying on the dashboard. The back seat was a mess, with notebooks and papers slumped in a pile and empty fast-food wrappers and bottles of water scattered on the floor.
So Justin was probably single. Greg smirked, then chastised himself. After all, he was single too.
He rang the doorbell, noting the well-tended pot of geraniums on either side. When the door opened, Greg automatically offered his badge and ID, having temporarily lost the power of speech.
Justin Harris had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.
Greg pulled himself together. Maybe this wasn’t Justin. “Mr. Harris?”
“Yes. Special Agent…” Justin squinted at Greg’s ID. “Marcotte. Come in.”
“Thanks.” Greg followed Justin into the house, noting the dated furnishings in the formal living room –such a waste of space—and the Formica countertops in the minuscule kitchen. Beyond the kitchen was the room where Greg supposed that Justin spent most of his time. Newer leather sofa and matching recliner, flat-screen TV, and a coffee table sculpted from what looked like an oversized chunk of driftwood. It was a gorgeous piece of furniture. Greg said, “I like the coffee table.”
“Thank you. My dad made it. Would you like a bottle of water or something?”
“No, thanks, I’m good.” Greg removed a pen and notepad from his pocket, and pretending not to, surveyed Justin more closely. He had a slightly crooked nose, which looked as if it had been broken at some point. His hair was dark blond and fine, too long to flatter his face, with a prominent widow’s peak on the right side of his forehead. He had freckles, plenty of them, scattered over his nose and cheeks. And those eyes…long-lashed, the color of Scotch whiskey.
Justin was a tad pudgy, probably a result of all those fast foods, but he was tall enough to carry it off. And he was tanned, not a pale-faced doughboy.
And he’s 95% likely to be straight. So knock it off. He clicked his pen open. “Who do you work for, Mr. Harris?”
“Hughes-Simmons Newspapers. They own the Orlando and Tampa papers, among others.”
“How long have you been with them?”
“Since 2009.”
“Where did you work before that?”
Justin named a website that Greg had never heard of. “And I freelanced too. That’s how I got my current job.”
It occurred to Greg that he could ask Justin almost anything and get away with it. “You live here by yourself?”
“Yeah.” Justin flushed, like he was embarrassed. “I grew up in this house.”
“Local boy.”
“Yes.” Justin tipped his head, studying Greg. “You’re not.”
“No. I’m not.” Implying, I’m here to ask questions, not answer them.
Justin looked down at his hands. “Sorry.”
Come on, Marcotte, don’t be a dick. He could tell Justin was nervous.
But he was trying to be helpful. Greg could use that.
He decided to cut to the chase. He could run background and a credit check on Justin tomorrow. “How do you know Roy Shaw?”